


Burn

by ofvanity



Series: L'Objet Petit A [2]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofvanity/pseuds/ofvanity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They’ve been hugging for forty-five seconds.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Slowly working my way up to Joan/Sherlock/Marcus.

“What is this?”

Marcus doesn’t get the chance to look up because before he knows it, there are a series of photos scattered over the work he was ignoring on his desk. “Where’d you get these?”

Joan rounds the desk and perches herself on the edge of it. “Sherlock’s been pouring over them and contacting graphic designers all over the city, trying to prove these pictures are photoshopped.”

“Why are you bringing them to me?”

“I want to know why he thinks they’re so important? Is this part of the cold case you were working on?”

“Yes and no,” Bell shuffles the photos to pull out a case file, “This is semi-current. A couple weeks ago a girl was killed. The man we suspect killed her has no alibi but unless we can prove that this photo is a fake, he’s got no motive.”

“Why the photo?”

“This man,” Bell says, pointing to the central figure, “Was suspected of killing his wife the day of that carnival. Photo proves he was there but we think the woman he killed, the sister of the woman who was murdered, rooted around and found out he was lying. She approached him, he killed her. But he’s covered his tracks again.”

“Motive, huh?”

Bell nods and then swivels in his chair to face Joan, “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you, he was convinced you would know how they faked it.”

Joan shrugs, “He’s been keeping his distance from me lately.” She studies the photo in her hands. On the back, the date stamp declares 1963, but something seems odd.

“Was the original case a cold case?”

“Yeah, we didn’t get wind of the murder until sometime in the ‘80’s, the detective who was working the case has retired already, but he was the one that broke this lead.”

“Who’s the woman in the photo with him?”

“Old flame. They were both teenagers in that photo, both about fifty now. She corroborated his story. Why?”

Joan points to her hairstyle and the hairstyle of another woman in the background. “These women are wearing the Twiggy five years early.”

He takes the photo from her hand and curses under his breath.

-

A couple days later, Joan is sitting on the floor in the front room, watching a late night TV movie, when the doorbell rings. It’s not uncommon for it to ring late at night. Still, she’s not expecting anyone and rushes to the door, with just a dash of panic in her stride. Sherlock is on the roof but he’ll want to know ASAP if they’ve got a case on.

She swings the door open without checking through the peephole and is met with an empty porch. There’s the flap of coats and footsteps and she steps out, pursuing her guest. At the top of the stairs, she spots Marcus, making his way out.

“Detective Bell?” she calls sharply.

He stops on the last step, foot curved on the landing. He pivots and breaks into a thin smile, “Hey, Joan.”

“Is something the matter?”

“No,” he says quickly and attempts to strengthen his grin but it looks even thinner. 

Joan tugs on her sweater and takes a couple steps down, barefoot, a few steps closer. “Did you close the Twiggy case?”

He looks back into the distance, nodding. “Yeah, case closed. That’s what I came to tell you, actually. We’re done.”

She spots the blood then, smeared across his gray shirt, reaching up to his collar where it stops. He must’ve cleaned it off his face because it looks like the trajectory would have continued. Joan rushes down the steps to the first landing, “Marcus, your shirt--”

He holds his hands up to stop her, “No, don’t worry, Joan, it’s not my blood. I’m fine.”

“What happened?” she asks again, tugging at her sweater for lack of else to do with her hands.

He doesn’t reply, instead scratches at the back of his head and rubbing his eyes like he’s fighting to open them. Joan steps down the landing and down the first two steps so she’s on the stair above him. Behind them, cars come and go, slowing over the speed bumps on their street, red lights glowing over the entire block. 

One of them slows over the first speed bump and then stops in front of the house. Joan watches the back open and Ms. Hudson slide out of the taxi gracefully. She’s got an overnight bag in her hand and a bag of groceries in the other. Joan doesn’t see her pay but she does blow a kiss at the cab driver before making her way toward them.

Marcus glances back at her and bites his lip like it might actually pain him to have to talk to another person. “Close your jacket,” Joan advises and he does so immediately, as if he was already thinking the same thing, buttoning it in short movements.

“Joan, angel, aren’t you cold?” 

Joan glances at herself, wearing only a hoodie and pajama shorts. It hadn’t occured to her. “Oh, I guess I forgot,” she laughs at herself just a bit. “It’s not too bad tonight.”

“No I suppose not,” Ms. Hudson throws back her golden hair and smiles radiantly at them both. “Still, it’s those iron thighs of yours at work again.”

‘Iron?” Marcus mouths, the corner of his mouth turned up.

“What are you doing out so late, then?” Joan says, choosing to ignore them both.

“Sherlock and I are having a movie night.”

“How did you manage to arrange that?” Marcus chimes in, startled expression on his face.

“Quid pro quo,” she says cryptically, but then adds. “A queen bee marathon, half documentaries and Sherlock’s personal footage, half teen movies.”

“Teen movies,” Joan repeats.

Ms. Hudson grins, and her cunning qualities show. “Clueless, Mean Girls, Breakfast Club, Pretty In Pink, you know.”

“Impressive,” Joan compliments, “Have at it, he’s on the roof.”

“Excellent, come up when you hear fighting about the merits of Cher’s buns of steel!”

“Do you need help,” Marcus asks, gesturing to her bags. 

“No, thank you, Detective,” she says mildly, and floats up the stairs, making heavy lifting look easy. 

“I’m really looking forward to that argument, Ms. Hudson, don’t let him out of it!”

“Ugh,” she says from the top of the stairs, pausing to look back at them, gentle smile on her lips, “As if!”

With that she disappears into the house, shutting the door with a hip bump. It’s suddenly dark outside for Joan and she wishes she had put shoes on before coming out. “Are you cold?” Marcus asks.

“No, it’s really not too bad,” she says and twists the sleeves of her hoodie nervously. “So.”

“Yeah, so.”

“What happened with the case?”

“It’s closed, I guess. We didn’t arrest the killer but he pulled a gun on the woman in the photo and Officer Robinson shot him, and you can’t arrest the dead so I guess it’s closed.”

“Robinson killed him?”

Bell bites his bottom lip, nodding. “Killer was shot in the chest.”

“And the medics?”

Detective Bell shakes his head. “Robinson is a good shot.”

“And now he’s a killer.”

Bell looks at her now, almost startled, like he was having the same thought. He opens his mouth to speak and shuts it before sighing and starting again. “I work with killers against killers. We’re supposed to protect people but I think sometimes all we do is fight fire with fire and half the city the is burning. I’m sorry,” he adds suddenly, turning again like he might leave, “I shouldn’t have bothered you, I need to go home. I just wanted you to know the case is over.”

“Is it? Over?”

“Nothing says closure like a pile of bodies.”

“Do you think Robinson made a mistake?”

“No,” Bell says immediately, hands coming on his hips. “Yes. Any time a person is killed, a mistake has been made. An error in judgement. But Robinson isn’t impulsive, if he thought he had to shoot, he must have felt himself to be in genuine danger.”

“Doesn’t make it any better.”

“No, it does not,” Bell agrees.

“Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“No, thank you.” He steps off the stairs and back towards the pavement, towards the small gate Ms. Hudson left open in her ethereal wake. He shuts it behind him. “I’ll see you around, Joan. Thanks for the help with the case.”

“Marcus,” Joan calls and steps up to the gate, knocking her knees against the steel bars. They run a chill through her but when she throws her arms around Marcus, his warmth spreads over her. His arms wrap around her waist tentatively and he squeezes her gently, despite the gate separating them. “I have never known you to burn anyone,” she promises.

His breath is warm near her neck and he sighs like it will relieve the tension in his body. “Thanks.”

-

From the roof, Sherlock watches their embrace in the street. Ms. Hudson appears at his left, chewing the popped corn he made and left downstairs. There is a handful in her palm. “What’re we watching?”

“They’ve been hugging for forty-five seconds.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Counting. Fifty now.”

“I think she’s comforting him.”

“I know as much, the case Detective Bell was working on ended badly.” Sherlock gestures emphatically and Joan and Bell finally part. “An entire minute.”

Ms. Hudson is looking at him with mild amusement. “You’re jealous.”

“Hardly.”

“I can see it on your face! You’ve got that look you get when you’re displeased with something but you don’t understand why. You wear it all the time.”

“Recount five examples please.”

“Oh my,” she teases with a gentle smile but immediately thereafter, rolls her eyes. “Come on, I’ll tell you about it while we watch Mean Girls.”


End file.
